Project: IceFire
by GEN.SKARBRAND
Summary: Spartan Jericho, first of the Spartan 4 project, is attacked while at base training. This is my first FanFic ever, please be as harsh as you want, thanks.


**Ice Fire**

He ran up the slope, beads of sweat and blood hanging like icicles on his stern, gaunt face. The air was painfully cold and although it made his body chatter like a rifle, he ran on through the winter blizzards. In the distance he thought that he had seen a shimmer of refracted light but then it was gone. He was so tired. He ran and ran, until he could run no more and then still he ran, for he was a Spartan warrior. He was the best of the best, and so he continued to run, on into the night.

He couldn't remember his name or in fact anything before the age of five, when he was inducted into the Spartan 4 program. The year was 2648 AD and humanity was losing the war against the covenant. So the Spartan program had been restarted upon the barren ice fields of Prism, a planet orbiting a star in the Omega sector.

All he knew was that he was the best of the recruits and was nearing the end of his induction. A twenty-year period of gruelling training designed to turn him into the perfect weapon they all hoped he would be. He was nearing his 27th birth anniversary and hoped that he would continue training past the normal period so that he could join the Orbital Drop Command. Drop Command was a branch of the UNSC (naval) that dealt with orbital assaults and battles. Ever since the age of twelve he had wished that he could visit the land of the stars. Maybe, he soon would be granted that wish to explore deep space with the UNSC.

He could see the lights of Avalon base now; they were twinkling like stars in the night sky, while soldiers in combat armour patrolled the bases boundaries. One of the soldiers, a guard called Vual, was signalling to him with a salute using his index and middle fingers. He seemed to be calling him over and gesturing to a bottle of clear, brownish liquid.

Vual shouted, "Hey Jericho, how's it going?" Is that my name, Jericho? He puzzled over it, "yes it must be," he thought.

"Hmm, what's that? Jericho asked Vual in a manner that could be described as part boredom, part tiredness. "It's whisky old mate," replied Vual, giving him a sip of the mixture.

Arrrr, it was lovely. The taste of the whisky burned down his throat with a warm and tingly feeling. His advanced taste and smell systems told him that the concoction was a 1987 (AD) Lochnagar- brand antique whisky from Scotland. Where Vual had got it puzzled him but he didn't care. At the moment all that mattered was that it was so enjoyable and warming of the senses. Jericho said goodbye to Vual and stepped through the gate that his friend had been guarding. As he was stepping over the gate's threshold, he could have sworn that he'd seen a dozen shimmers of light ambling through the snow towards Avalon. Maybe it was just his eyes but he was sure they were tailing him.

It was warm inside the barracks (an after-effect of being near to a plasma reactor). In fact it was almost humid, with water trailing down the cold windows. At one side of the room was a steel table, while the other side was taken up by seven tons of Scorpion battle tank, its main gun shaped like a fat cigar. The table had a few cards and other effects strewn over it, in a state that was just as if a four-year old had only a moment ago ambled through there. He continued through the room's other door.

The corridor that he stepped into was a dark-greenish colour. One of the lights was smashed and the walls dusted with scarlet blobs. It took him a moment to realise what he was seeing. He was puzzled, why were the walls covered in blood? Over the loud hum of machinery, he could hear the distinctive sound of Plasma weaponry. He was moving before he realised it. His heart was pounding like a drum. Moving like a bolt of lightning he ran into Avalon's armoury, his legs thumping up and down like a pair of pistons. He ripped a carbine out of its slot and continued to run towards the sound of battle.

Finally some action, thought Jericho. As he was storming down the corridor a hulking shape stepped out of shadows at the end of the corridor. The shape became an outline and that outline became a serious threat to both him and everyone else near Avalon. The Brute Chieftain was at least four metres tall and fully armoured. It was armed with a metre-long sword of lethal, rippling energy. The Brute lunged forwards, both its strength and weapon easily capable of killing him outright. Jericho took up a firing stance and let loose a storm of bullets in the general direction of the Brute. He got lucky as one of the bullets punched through the Brute's left eye, killing it instantly. He slew the next Brute with his combat-blade, expertly severing the trachea (along with most of it's neck) from the Brute's lower spinal cord.

Leaving both his kills gazing dumbly at the sky, Jericho ran towards the main gate. There he found his old friend Vual. He was dead, his vitals leaking from a huge crater in his chest. Before grief overcame him, he smashed the door wide using the sole of his foot and hobbled out into the night. He looked out upon the scene of devastation. Avalon base was barely recognisable. Craters ranging from one to fifty metres in radius littered the area. As he cried for the fallen he vowed that he would avenge his friend's deaths.

A figure trudged on through the blizzards, tired beyond imagining. He ran and ran, but he never gave up, for he was a Spartan warrior and his name was Jericho.


End file.
